Wild Inferno by Sandi Ault Page B

choppers.”
    â€œYou never talked to me about Somalia before.”
    â€œNothing to talk about. Army ranger stuff.”
    â€œWell, you just called the fire an enemy. And a minute ago, you mentioned tracer bullets.”
    He got up from the table, pushed his chair back under it, spit tobacco juice on the dirt to the side, and said, “It was just a way of describing things.” He started to walk away. “We’ve both had a long day, babe. Let’s leave it at that.”
    â€œBut what about the critical stress debriefing?” I said, getting up from my chair.
    â€œI wouldn’t miss it for the world.” He winked and gave a corny smile.

    Kerry was right. The critical stress debriefing was pretty much a waste of time. Most of the CSD team had gone to Albuquerque, since the hotshots were there and families were being transported in. So it was just me, Kerry, and the facilitator, a young woman named Barb who barely looked old enough to drive. Kerry did very little talking, and only answered the questions in terse replies. Neither of us had truly had time to take in the events of the day. When I told Barb what had happened, it felt like I was describing a movie I’d seen. “I’m not in real time,” I told her.
    â€œNot in real time?” she said.
    â€œA lot has happened today. It feels like it’s been a week, and it’s been less than twenty-four hours.”
    Kerry and I answered a few questions about how we felt. We watched as Barb scribbled on a paper clamped to a clipboard. “Watch yourself and your teammates for signs of stress,” she warned. “Talk about it with one another if that feels right, or call us and we’ll come back and talk with you. Let us know if there’s anything we can do. Seeing someone in death—even just the injuries you saw today alone—can cause extreme trauma for the observer.”
    When she left, Kerry walked out, too, but I remained and fixed myself another jug of iced lemon water. I shook my head, thinking about our facilitator. Sweet, I thought. She’s so sweet. She’s just trying to help. But she didn’t know that I’d watched three men die less than a year ago—one of them Momma Anna’s son. And there were more deaths before that, but that was another story. Lately, I thought, I see death more often than I see my neighbors. Of course, I don’t really have any neighbors. Unless you count coyotes and mountain lions. Deer and elk. And bears.

13
Fire Camp
    Wednesday, 2330 Hours
    After the debriefing, I walked to the newly emerging supply cache, which consisted of three long tables and some yellow caution tape defining a perimeter around pyramids of boxes, mounds of sleeping bags rolled tightly into sacks like fat sausages, crates of bottled water, sunscreen, and other items. I grabbed a form and made a list requesting the things I needed to do my job: pens, paper, a clipboard; a whiteboard, tripod, and markers so I could leave notices by the restrooms up in the parking lot at the top of Chimney Rock. “Where do I order meals?” I asked the supply clerk.
    He pointed to the logistics chief, who was strolling toward the ICP.
    I made out a requisition for forty-five breakfasts and bag lunches, and got the paperwork into the right hands.
    Then I went to my Jeep and drove to one of the three furnished cabins there at Navajo State Park. Two had been assigned to the men on the Command and General Staff, and the third was for the high-ranking women—there were twelve of us on the team. I hauled my red firefighter travel bag, complete with small spike tent and sleeping bag, in the door of the women’s cabin and found that the six bunks were already taken and women on sleeping bags occupied most of the floor. I noticed Elaine Oldham lying on her side, still awake, in one of the upper bunks. We exchanged smiles. There was no place on the floor except for the middle of the room,